


Loneliness and Fear

by orphan_account



Category: Chernobyl (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Comfort, Depression, Fluff, I really just wanted to post this asap, Insomnia, M/M, My First Work in This Fandom, PTSD, Please excuse any mistakes, sleeping problems, soft, un-betaed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 00:38:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19366765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Valery and Boris both have trouble with sleep; their reasons deep and painful. But they finally find a solution.





	Loneliness and Fear

**Author's Note:**

> Typical disclaimer to say I mean no disrespect; those who know the fandom understand and will enjoy the fic. Please do not send hate comments.

Valery clutches one of the pillows tight to his chest, as if to try to soothe the hole full of pain there; full of emptiness. It doesn’t work. It never does. But he does it anyways, pretending, forcing his mind to the limits of its imaginative powers, to make believe the sensation of human warmth, of rising and falling breaths, of life there between his hands, instead of a sack of cloth and cotton. It doesn’t work.

 

He’s so tired. Not just of the crisis, of the long, stressful hours of work everyday, trying to find solutions to an impossible problem. Of dealing with the apparatchik, the bullshit politics, the red tape and idealist denial. He’s exhausted of it all, but on a deeper level. He’s so tired of being alone. Of having nothing but work, academics and his awfully cute cat, but nothing more. Of trying to suffocate his anxiety with pack after pack of cigarettes, to no avail. Of immersing himself in science, in thought, in mind ramblings, to forget what haunts him every night: that’s he’s terribly lonely.

 

And the shame it brings. Why should he, at his age, care for being lonely? Isn’t every man alone? Even those married, with large families, or just surrounded by friends and colleagues? Aren’t we all alone, after all, when the lights go out, when all that’s left is to lie on the bed, either on a side of it or all of it? Owning no more than our shallow breaths and our thoughts, unable to fill the dark silence? Isn’t it the truth that, in the edge of night, all we have are ourselves?

 

Valery knows it’s true, and yet... and YET, it hurts. Why? Why does something so inevitable have to hurt so damn much?

 

Sometimes it hurts so much he sobs into the pillow. Sometimes it hurts so much he can’t even cry. He just stares at the wall, watching the play of lights from outside his window dance on the cracking plaster; yellow and orange, like fireflies in summer. And each time his only companion is suicidal ideation. Each time he thinks up a new, clever way to go. A mixture of pills and vodka. A rope, perhaps. Always making sure he has a failsafe plan to keep his feline companion safe afterwards.

Tonight is no different. Despite being in a foreign bed far from his dingy apartment in Moscow,mere kilometres from the Mouth of Hell itself, the same stupid, inane routine plays itself out. After a round of vodka and cigarettes, Valery showers, trying to force his tired body to relax under the hot water, but the muscles do not heed him. He turns off the lights, closes the window, and gets into bed, after having carefully arranged the pillows in a cryptic configuration: one in the centre, two on the sides, and one by his arms, the designated body to hold for the night. And he lays down, and pulls the soft rectangle to his chest, because maybe tonight it will work; maybe tonight the pillow will disappear into a dream and become a warm, strong body Valery Legasov can squeeze andhug and pull his face tightly towards. If he’s lucky, a hand will ghost over his head, fingers dancing through his thinning hair, over his scarred face, making him feel beautiful and wanted and loved and most importantly, not alone.

 

But it doesn’t work.

 

 

—

 

 

It’s been an hour. Maybe two. He stopped counting the minutes after a while, and how many times he’s turned in bed since he forced himself to go to sleep.

 

Boris just lays there, staring at the ceiling, feeling the waves of shame creep up on him, on the edges of his consciousness, and uses up all his mental energy to fight it off; a foreign intruder upon his homeland that he must surely destroy.

 

He can feel his heart get more and more agitated as the seconds tick away. His breath coming in shallow and ragged. Fuck, not again.

He curses loudly into the darkness and throws the covers to the floor. Fuck this shit. He gets up and walks over to the table to grab at the vodka bottle and take a long swig. It’s almost empty, which upsets him more. He’d drank most of it earlier. His usually nighttime sedative. His usual, useless attempt at keeping the demons at bay long enough to drift into oblivion.

 

_If only they knew!_ He thinks, a small smile cracking on his thin lips. They all think he works so much because he loves The State; because he’s a dedicated career party man who sacrificed everything for the sake of his country’s honour. There’s a much more selfish reason. It’s because overwork is the only way he can get his traumatized body to be tired enough to collapse into dreamless sleep. Otherwise, the moment he closes his eyes it all comes back again. The unconsciousness of sleep means lower guard. The enemy has an in, and attacks.

 

Boris would rather die than admit that he’s afraid— no, terrified, of sleep. And the horrible images it brings. He’s absolutely ashamed of admitting he’s more scared of dreams than the impending apocalypse of Reactor No. 4.

 

The only times he remembers closing his eyes in absolute peace was when there was someone next to him, someone he loved. Someone he could be loved by. Someone that could make him feel that no matter what horrendous things he’d see that night, he’d be safe. There’d be warm arms to receive him. And no shame to hide from. But there hasn’t been any safe haven in a long time. And so, Boris Shcherbina hasn’t really slept in decades.

 

 

—

 

 

Not bothering to check the clock, Valery steps outside and makes his way to the hotel’s courtyard. He instinctively wraps his arms around himself, despite it being summer and not chilly at all. Instinct purely, the sensation of loneliness intensifying in open space.

 

His eyes immediately focus on Boris Shcherbina, crouching down to feed the stray dogs, which were happily waiting at his feet for some kolbasa. Valery hesitates, fidgeting on the spot he stands in. He hadn’t bothered dressing to step outside; simply walked out in his pajamas. He noticed Boris was fully dressed, as if he had been on his way to work, even though it’s about 3 in the morning.

 

He didn’t have time to decide whether to walk up to him or go back to his room because Boris sensed him, and turned around to meet his eyes.

 

“Valera,” he said softly. “You can’t sleep either?”

 

“No...” he replies, ending with a long sigh.

 

Boris makes to walk up to him. Valery tenses up, and his right hand automatically goes for his left breast pocket for a cigarette, only to be disappointed.

 

“What’s wrong?” Boris asks. Valery shrugs.

 

“It’s nothing. I always have trouble sleeping,” he replies. Boris is standing so close to him he can smell his cologne. He breathes it in, without realizing he closes his eyes as he does so.

 

Boris stands there, watching Valery sigh heavily with his eyes closed, almost as if he’s sleepwalked and delirious, completely forgetting his presence. _God, he looks so exhausted_ , he thinks. He can feel his hands move on their own to sit on top of his sleepy partner’s shoulders, his brain too tired as well to object to the overly intimate nature of the gesture. The dogs behind him have given up hope of getting more treats tonight and have trotted off away. Some howl in the distance. Boris looks around them; nothing but darkness. It’s almost comforting.

Finally, he speaks. “I see... me too, actually.”

 

 

—

 

 

Valery’s eyes open at the sound of Boris’ voice. He feels heat rush to his face. He actually dozed off standing right there! As he was talking to Boris! How embarrassing!

 

“I’m so sorry Borja... “ The heat intensifies as he realizes how he’s just called him; something he’d only allowed himself to do in thoughts up until now. “I mean...” he starts, trying to rectify it, hoping Boris was just as tired as he is, and not noticed the slip.

 

“It’s all right, Valera. I was hoping you’d start calling me that already,” Boris replies, smiling slightly. Valery’s eyes open up a bit in surprise. He’d been hoping... but he hadn’t actually thought he’d get anything.

 

“You want to walk a little?” Boris asks. Valery nods.

 

 

—

 

 

They walk back to the hotel entrance, but taking the long way around the fountain. Valery is curious, and after a few moments of silence, he finally gives in and asks.

 

“What’s your reason?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“For not being able to sleep, I mean. What brought you out here tonight?”

 

“Oh. The usual.”

 

Valery frowns. Boris can be so stubborn sometimes. He half laughs at himself too, since he can be the same way.

 

“What’s ‘the usual’ for you... Borja?” He allows himself the newly allowed privilege of using the nickname, with deep delight.

 

Boris swallows. Despite feeling comfortable around Valery, enough to talk about such things, it’s still hard to get around the internalized shame. He’s a soldier. He’s seen so much. He still doesn’t fully understand how he can watch unflinchingly as a man dies, yet is terrified of what he could see when he’s asleep. But then, as he turns to look at Valery... brave, beautiful Valery, who feels so strong yet so fragile, so brilliant yet so innocent, and other things that he still doesn’t understand... it all just collapses into his chest. He’s too tired, it’s late, and he just wants to be able to talk about it once and for all.

 

“I can’t sleep because... of the dreams,” he whispers, eyes downcast. A knot of fear and anger forms in his stomach. If Valery isn’t careful, he could trigger a nasty, cruel reaction that he’d regret later.

 

“I know what that feels like,” Valery answers. Boris looks at him in surprise. “I too don’t want to see what’s in my head when I’m asleep.”

 

Boris stops walking and just turns to look at Valery, who is giving him a look he doesn’t quite understand. But it makes him feel warm, yet awake. Relaxed, yet energized. And an impulse to move towards him, to eliminate the physical distance between them. Valery’s skin is suddenly necessary; his body needed more than sleep. All this Boris feels in the split of a second, broken by Valery’s voice when he announces they’re back at the hotel’s entrance.

 

“Borja, we’re both so exhausted. We’ve been working so hard. This is getting to all of us. I think we’re all terrified,” Valery says, putting a hand on Boris’ shoulder.

 

“I know, “ Boris sighs. “But this...” he continues, gesturing to himself, “... this is older. From before.”

 

“I know,” Valery answers softly. “Me too.”

 

 

—

 

 

They make their way back up to their floor, in no rush. Valery wishes the building were Escher-like, stairs bending into each other impossibly, never reaching any door. This way he wouldn’t have to go back to his room, to that empty bed, and the hole in his chest.

 

Boris drags his feet up the stairs, beads of sweat in his brow. Not from the walk or the physical exertion, but from the anticipation of the battle that awaits him: holding off the mental torture of satanic proportions that he must wage should he fall asleep.

 

Both miserably reach their respective doors, knowing they’ll have to confront their nightly struggle. A shared sigh catches each other’s attention. It occurs to Boris then, that he doesn’t know why exactly is it that Valery can’t sleep.

 

“You said the usual... what’s the ‘usual’ Valera?” Boris turns to Valery and asks. Valery mouth opens and closes, his eyes heaven and downcast. Boris feels entranced as he watches his lips try to form a response. He also notices the colour flush Valery’s face again.

 

“Just tell me,” Boris demands, when he sees that Valery is struggling to get past his embarrassment to answer him. “I told you why I can’t sleep. What’s your reason?”

 

“I...,” Valery starts, swallowing hard. He huffs and makes a fist for courage. “I can’t sleep because...I’m lonely.”

 

“Valera...”

 

“Before you say anything, please let me say that, I’m not trying to suggest anything. I’ve been lonely for most of my life. You’d think after a while, of living life this way Id’ get used to it by now. But I feel it every night. And it keeps me awake. And it hurts so much. And it doesn’t dissipate, it doesn’t fade. It just gets stronger and stronger, sharper and sharper, the older I get. I’m a needy old man. It’s so pathetic, isn’t it?” Valery laughs sadly. Self-deprecatingly.

 

“You’re not old. If you’re old, then I’m a dinosaur,” Boris replies, with a soft nudge, meant as a small joke. Valery smiles. “And... you’re not needy,” he continues. “You’re like me.”

 

“I’m lonely too,” Boris admits as well.

 

Valery tried to play the whole thing off, minimize it, but Boris is too tired. Of pretending, of it all. He has to do this for a living, every day. He wants just one moment of authenticity, of truth. And he wants it with Valera.

 

“Loneliness and Fear.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“What keeps us up at night,” Valery explains. “Being too lonely and too afraid.”

 

Boris looks at him. Valery isn’t mocking him, nor being condescending. He’s simply stating fact. Calmly, matter-of-factly. Like he said back at the Kremlin, it’s not alarmist if it’s a fact.

 

Boris exhales. Suddenly his whole body feels open; the tension meting away. Valery senses it too; his body responding to Boris automatically. They stand there looking at each other in silence for a while, until their breathing synchronizes and their breaths come in slow and quiet, as they do when one falls asleep.

 

Boris is grateful when he realizes there is no need to explain anything with words at this point. He simply grabs Valery’s hands and leads him inside his room. Valery has no hesitation at all. He lets himself be led into the room and into the bed. No fear, no shame, no embarrassment. They lay down facing each other and when Boris lays a hand on Valery’s face, softly caressing his scarred skin as if it were the most delicate surface in existence, and Valery reaching up to stroke the back of Boris’ hand with his thumb, it’s experienced by both as such a domestic gesture; as if it’s something they’ve been doing with each other for decades.

 

“Good night, Borechka,” Valery whispers, feeling a soft, warm blanket of sleep embrace him; the hole in his chest finally full.

 

“Good night, Valerochka, “ Boris whispers back, ghosting his partners’ lips with his own. He didn’t even notice the moment he drifted into sleep.

 

\- -

end.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I wrote this as a way to talk about my issues with my PTSD-related insomnia, what the characters say is what I’ve gone through myself (my main motivation for fic writing is to work out my own issues through writing). But I felt this was a good intro into the fandom, when searching what to write for it. I hope you enjoy it ^^.
> 
> 2\. I found an article online about Russian diminutives and found even “cuter” versions of their regular nicknames, which I used at the very end. According to the article, this level of diminutive is only from parent to small child, or amongst lovers, meaning it implies even closer intimacy than regular nicknames.


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